


All Things Mortal

by MistressKat



Series: Dream of Dragons [4]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People die. Hathaway dreams. Dragons guard their secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Mortal

**Author's Note:**

> Brilliant beta-reading by [Fictionwriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionwriter). The title and the verse at the beginning are from [The Dream]() by John Clare.

_And 'midst the dread of horror's mad extreme,  
I lost all notion that it was a dream:  
Sinking I fell through depths that seem'd to be  
As far from fathom as Eternity;  
While dismal faces on the darkness came  
With wings of dragons and with fangs of flame_

 

The dreams start gradually. At first there are only short flashes, interspersed among the more mundane dreams, and in the morning James thinks there was _something_ but the memory fades too quickly to grasp. He doesn’t try either, it’s nothing important.

Slowly though, more and more of his nights are spent caught in the web of these strange new dreams. There is still nothing concrete there for him to pin down, no faces or places, but each morning he wakes up feeling exhausted and with a pervading sense of disquiet. His stomach is in constant knots of anxiety, even though there is nothing really to be anxious about; everything is fine at work and home.

It doesn’t take long until Lewis starts casting worried glances his way, which Hathaway does his very best to ignore as long as he can, which is to say: not very long.

“You look like death warmed over,” Lewis finally comments when James comes to work on Monday morning after a rare weekend off. Not that it had done any good for him as he’d spent it with too many bottles of Merlot in a vain attempt to drown the damned dreams.

“I’m fine,” he says, avoiding Lewis’ eyes. “Are the lab results from the Dullard case back yet?” As diversions go, it’s a poor one.

His boss isn’t falling for it either. “No,” he answers shortly, crossing his arms and regarding Hathaway with eyes that see too much. James wonders if it’s a dragon thing but probably not, just a ‘Robbie Lewis thing’. “I’m serious though, lad. Are you coming down with something? We’ve got nothing urgent on so maybe you should go home and sleep? I’ll cover with Innocent if she—”

“I don’t want to sleep!” Hathaway snaps, instantly regretting it when Lewis’ eyes narrow and he gets the same look on his face he has when honing in a salient clue in a case. “That is... I don’t need to sleep, I’m _fine_ ,” James repeats.

It’s clear that Lewis doesn’t believe a word of it but the note of pleading must be plain in his voice because he drops it, silently handing James a folder and turning back to his own work.

For his part, James is both relieved and disappointed. Six months ago Lewis would’ve persisted. He would’ve kept asking until Hathaway told him what was wrong and then insisted on involving himself in making it all better somehow, although James doesn’t know what he could possibly do about something like this.

Not now though. Ever since the Johnson case, Lewis has pulled away. The invitations for dinner have stopped and they no longer socialise outside of work. There certainly hasn’t been any further glimpses of Robbie’s true form, the intimacy of watching him fly taken away as suddenly as it was granted. It’s as if Lewis has opened the door just enough for James to peer inside and then slammed it shut on him.

He understands the reason for it, of course, even though they haven’t spoken a word about it since that snowy day in the parking lot. Lewis is afraid. Hathaway still doesn’t know exactly what of, only that it has created a distance between them just as Lewis had started to reach across it.

And James... he’s never been good at knowing how to do that, to reach out, even when he should.

So he doesn’t say anything, simply opens the folder and tries to ignore the way the words blur and waver, the knot of tension in his gut only winding tighter.

 

***

 

The dreams continue; night after night of formless threat, flashes of colour that seem to burn the inside of his eyelids long after he’s woken up, and a lingering sense of movement that leaves his muscles trembling and his stomach queasy. James is no stranger to nightmares – no copper is – but they have always been specific, easily understood and defined; a victim demanding justice or lingering ghosts from his childhood. He knows how to deal with such dreams.

These though...  There is nothing concrete to grab hold of, no demons to exorcise. Just a pervasive sense of _wrongness_ , of something coming.

In a way then, it’s almost a relief when the dreams finally change.

 

***

 

_He’s in a house. No, not a house; a mountain. Made out of concrete and lifeless, except for the mice. Little soft rodents, twitching this way and that, always afraid, always running._  
  
 _He’s running too; strong and fast and so much bigger than the mice, so much better, and there are... desks and computers and partition walls, all parting in his wake indeed as he knocks over the little mouse office, a yellow rubbish bin crushing under his feet and he laughs because they may have burned the forests but here he is, king of this metal-and-glass mountain and the mouse..._  
  
 _...the pretty little mouse, with his pretty little face all twisted in fear, he smells like vermin and everyone knows what to do with vermin, everyone knows..._

  
  
James wakes up drenched in cold sweat. He makes it to the bathroom just in time, throwing up until his throat it raw and burning, tears streaming down his face. He’s not sure how long it goes on but afterwards he can do nothing but curl up on the floor, arms folded around his stomach and eyes resolutely open because he is afraid of what he might see if he closes them. It takes a while, but eventually James manages to stand up, although with some effort.  
  
There is nothing but bile and remains of his dinner in the toilet bowl, none of which explain the taste of blood that lingers in his mouth even after he brushes his teeth.  
  
When he makes it back to the bedroom, Hathaway fumbles for his phone, the lit screen telling him it’s a little past four in the morning.  
  
At quarter to six, the phone lights up again, this time with an incoming call.  
  
“Yeah?” he croaks in greeting, not bothering to lift his head from where it’s resting heavily against the sofa cushions.  
  
There’s a few second silence at the other end, which Hathaway knows is Lewis evaluating just how bad he sounds. Evidently not bad enough to sit out whatever case he’s calling about – and really, it can only be about a case, James thinks a little bitterly, it’s not likely that Robbie is calling to ask whether he’d be interested in another impromptu lesson in Dragonese.  
  
He’s right.  
  
“Innocent rang,” Lewis offers by way of explanation, his own voice sleep gruff still and James imagines him sitting in his bedroom, shoulders rounded in the early morning light, feet bare. Or maybe he’s been flying already and the gravelly quality of his voice is from the wind and fire, maybe his skin is still covered in scales, pale gold and warm, and—  
  
“I’ll pick you up in about twenty,” Hathaway says, hanging up. If his life has taught him anything so far, it’s that there is no point in wanting what he can’t have.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Walsh, Kumar and Associates,” Lewis reads from the plaque outside the office. Everything about the places exudes the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to advertise itself; the waiting area is tastefully decorated with modern art and plush chairs, the reception desk discreetly tucked away near the doors that presumably lead toward the actual working areas.  
  
It is there that the impression of order and propriety ends though. The pair of uniformed officers guarding the door sport identical haunted looks that promise nothing good inside it. Of course, the full protective bodysuits waiting them are clue enough.  
  
“Doctor Hobson’s orders,” one of the PCs says. “Nobody is to go in without one.”  
  
James smells the blood before he sees it; the distinctive metallic sweetness of it cloying the inside of his nostrils and the roof of his mouth, evoking the ghost of his earlier nausea. The scene that greets them finishes the job and James swallows hot saliva convulsively, fighting not to throw up. He’s seen blood before, but never like this: sprayed all over the walls, the overturned office desks, the strewn papers on the floor, droplets of it speckling the shattered computer monitors. It’s like a slaughterhouse, one that’s been hit by a truck.  
  
Hathaway blinks and shifts his focus to Lewis, and doesn’t that tell something about how screwed his perception has become, when a dragon seems like the safest, most normal thing amidst all this carnage.  
  
Except maybe that isn’t quite true right now. Lewis is wearing an expression James has never seen before; his face, normally lined with sadness or grim with purpose when encountering a tragedy such as this, is instead one of hard angles, his eyes flat and emotionless and—  
  
Hathaway gasps as the deep amber gaze flickers his way, the elongated pupils large and otherworldly, but then Lewis blinks and his eyes are human again. “Let’s go talk to Laura,” he says, and he sounds the same as always, looks it too as he starts to pick his way through the chaos toward Doctor Hobson who is crouched over what could only be the victim.  
  
James swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and follows slowly. He wonders if he imagined it except no, he knows he didn’t. There is no chance to think about what it might mean though and in a way he is almost grateful for that.  
  
The feeling lasts until he gets the first proper look at what remains of the victim. “Jesus _Christ!_ ” The name is more a prayer than a curse and James’ hand rises toward his throat on instinct, the first three fingers pressed together, starting to draw the cross before he stops himself. Not that anyone notices, both Robbie and Laura seemingly intent on the body.  
  
If it can still be called that. The man – and Hathaway can only even tell that much because of the black leather shoes, still stuck to the victim’s feet – lies face down on the ground, his arms stretched in front of him, palms up and open as if he’s beseeching for a mercy which didn’t come. There is almost nothing left of his torso that is still recognisably human.  
  
Someone has ripped his spine out. With a grim look, Doctor Hobson points toward the corner where James sees something white and glistening amidst the ever-present blood. He feels his gorge arising anew when he realises he’s looking at the missing vertebrae, cast aside like cheap dice.  
  
“No human did this,” Lewis says. His voice is flat.  
  
“Well, technically, I guess they could have...” Laura sounds doubtful, stating an alternative hypothesis only for the sake of scientific integrity, not because she really believes it.  
  
“No human,” Lewis repeats. “Do we have a name yet?”  
  
“The cleaners who found him think he’s probably Alan West, one of the junior clerks. They said he had a habit of pulling all-nighters; that they’d seen him here working on previous mornings. But we can’t be sure yet it’s him.”  
  
Lewis nods, scribbling in his notebooks. He says something about sending PCs to check Mr. West’s apartment, but James isn’t really listening, his attention drawn by a flash of colour other than red. There’s something underneath one of the desks still standing, but it’s not until he crouches down that he can see what it is.  
  
Amidst the bloodied folders, there lies a yellow paper bin, misshapen as if smashed by something heavy.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It rains that afternoon, the kind of relentless deluge that heralds the beginning of autumn even though summer isn’t officially over yet.  Hathaway watches the way it runs down the wall-length windows of Walsh, Kumar and Associates; a hypnotising ever-changing pattern of water that keeps distracting him through the endless interviews with Mr West’s work colleagues.  
  
“A good guy,” all of them say. “Worked hard, kept to himself.”  
  
The interviews are largely fruitless. No one knows of any enemies or altercations Alan may have had. Given the circumstances, they ask about his political views as subtly as they can but there is nothing that would send alarm bells ringing. Either Mr West was very good at keeping his true opinions to himself or he genuinely was neutral about anything to do with dragons, neither an unspoken supporter of equal rights nor a potential recruit for _Populi Suprema_.  
  
“That was a waste of time,” Lewis states flatly when they finally make it back to the station. His hair is flat from the rain, his grey suit looking almost black. He looks like he’s dressed for a funeral and for a moment James feels a cold that has nothing to do with the weather.  
  
He turns away, sitting at his desk and switching on his computer. He very much doubts HOLMES will reveal any other murders similar to today’s but it’s worth a shot. They’ve got preciously little else to go on at the moment.  
  
There’s a pop of joints as Lewis stretches and then a creak of the chair. James watches his screen load and tries not to think about how difficult it must be for him, being confined in the human form for long stretches of time during intensive investigations.  
  
They work in silence for a while, checking various databases and drawing blanks. There is nothing in Alan West’s past that even hints at involvement with dragons, and nothing that warrants a plausible motive. And if the murder was a work of a serial killer it’s one that is only just starting as there are no cases with a similar MO or signature.  
  
“We’re going to have to talk to the local dragon population again,” Lewis finally says. He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it and Hathaway can sympathise. It’s only been six months of so since the Johnson murder and dragons are disinclined to co-operate with human authorities at the best of times.  
  
“But if there was someone... I would’ve heard about it,” Lewis states. He rubs hands over his face, looking tired, which, considering they’ve been working for close to fifteen hours now, is no surprise.  
  
Hathaway believes him too. Robbie may not be actively involved with the other dragons – not that James knows anyway, although lately he’s started to re-evaluate the extent to which he knows _anything_ about his boss really – but he has his ear to the ground, being as he is the unofficial liaison between the human society and that of dragons. And if it isn’t someone local...  
  
With a sigh Hathaway tips his head back to look at the stained ceiling. He hates to say it but... “Williams?” he asks hesitantly. The dragon has killed before, and savagely, he’s seen it with his own eyes.  
  
Lewis is shaking his head though. “Not his style. Too... messy. And there’s no reason for it, none that I can see. Besides, he’s been in Brussels for the last three days, on some European Parliament briefing.”  
  
James raises his eyebrows and Robbie shrugs. “Yes, alright, I checked. But mostly to make sure he and his merry band wouldn’t turn out to meddle with the investigation.”  
  
They haven’t released any details yet and even the official reports have been bland to the extreme, not a word of a suspected dragon attack has made it to writing. Hathaway knows that Lewis prefers to keep it that way as long as possible and he can’t exactly blame him. If he never sees Williams again it will still be too soon.  
  
“C’mon lad, it’s late,” Lewis interrupts his musings. “We can look at this with fresh eyes come morning.”  
  
Hathaway drops off his boss first since he’d picked him up this morning and Lewis didn’t like borrowing the cars from the station garage, saying that they smelt wrong. He gets out of the car but doesn’t walk off straightaway, instead leaning back down to regard James through the open passenger side door.  
  
“What?” he finally asks, unnerved and sounding it.  
  
Robbie looks like he might ask something but in the end he only shakes his head. “Good night,” he says, and then: “Sleep well.”  
  
Hathaway watches him walk to his front door. He thinks about sticking around to see if Lewis goes flying, but it’s dark and still raining so he probably wouldn’t see anything even if he did. Besides, it feels like a violation to watch something like that uninvited.  
  
James takes the long route home instead, driving around as long as he feels awake enough to do so safely. The image of the crushed yellow bin keeps flickering in his mind no matter how determinedly he tries to push it down.  
  
It’s a coincidence, James tells himself. It means nothing.  
  
He doesn’t believe it.  
  
He’s afraid to go to sleep.  
  
  
***  
  
  
That night he dreams again, but it’s different.  
  
There are no walls or buildings. There is no ground, only...  
  
  


_... the sky, vast and fathomless, curving around him like a palm that shelters but does not restrict. It’s night time, though he can see everything clearly and the darkness is no darkness at all, only lack of sun._  
  
 _He rises higher and higher, the stars above the clouds greeting him like a prodigal son, and in their borrowed light his wings burn like a sacrifice. In all the years spent in prayer, in churches and confessionals, he has never been closer to God than he is in that moment, letting the wind carry him as it wills._  
  
 _Closer to God... or closer to being God..._

  
The next morning, James attends the Lauds.  
  
  
***  
  
  
At work, they continue hitting their heads against a brick wall with the West case for three more days. Then Hathaway has another nightmare.  
  
This time he knows there will be another body before Lewis even calls him, knows it as soon as he wakes up, his legs aching from the dream running, the metallic tang of blood familiar in his mouth.  
  
This time he takes one look at the victim – female, disembowelled less than three yards from her car, the keys still clutched in her hand – and loses the fight against his stomach, throwing up nothing but spit and bile against someone’s BMW away from the crime scene.  
  
No one says anything about it. He’s not the only one.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The second victim is Martha Rowell, fifty-three, a secondary school maths teacher who has no connection to Alan West that anyone can discover. Unlike Alan, Martha was social and active in the local community, leaving behind a large circle of friends and grieving family demanding answers. However, none of them had any more to do with dragons than Mr West and questions about Martha’s views on the topic were met with confused shrugs.  
  
They go back to interviewing the local dragons, asking the same questions with a different name attached. The response is still polite, though barely.  
  
“It’s only a matter of time until someone calls NDA and reports us for harassment,” James observes after Chu Min spits at them in a mixture of Dragonese and Mandarin before unceremoniously closing the door in their faces.  
  
“Well it won’t be her,” Lewis says and James is surprised to see him smiling. “Drawing attention from those in power is the last thing she’ll want to do, whether that’s by ringing up NDA or murdering humans.”  
  
Hathaway frowns, feeling slow.  
  
Lewis huffs. “Think about it. She’s Chinese, only moved here in the sixties. Being a dragon in China is a bit like being a dragon in Wales, only multiplied by about a hundred: complicated by millennia of mythology and expectations.”  
  
He’d never thought about that, how the culture of the country affected the dragons there, although in hindsight it’s obvious. Emboldened by the way Lewis seems to have forgotten about keeping Hathaway at arm’s length when it came to details such as these, he asks, trying to make it sound casual: “Was it difficult for you, after the war?”  
  
There’s silence, though not hostile or prickly, and so James lets it linger, focusing on putting his seatbelt on and turning the ignition as they get to the car. They’re half-way to the station until Lewis answers, long after Hathaway has given up waiting for it.  
  
“Not difficult,” he says. “But I didn’t have to deal with it on my own then.”  
  
The answer only sparks several more questions in James’ mind but then it’s too late; they’re back at work and the window of opportunity closes.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“You’re staying with me until we’re done with this case,” Lewis tells him later that day without any warning or preamble.  
  
Hathaway freezes, one arm in his jacket sleeve, the other bent backwards clumsily. “What?” He blinks. “ _Why?_ ”  
  
“Because there are inquiries I have to do whilst not...,” Lewis waves an illustrative hand over his torso, presumably meaning his human form, “...and I can’t leave my la— _house_ , unguarded while I do that, not with the killer still loose and so, well...” He trails off, looking uncharacteristically awkward for a few seconds before he continues: “Besides, you look like you could use a good meal and a decent night’s sleep and you’re obviously not getting either at that flat of yours.”  
  
Hathaway thinks about protesting but the truth is he doesn’t want to. Instead he finishes shrugging into his jacket and nods. “Fine. But I’m driving.”  
  
Lewis eyes him suspiciously but when there is no further argument his shoulders visibly relax.  
  
It should be awkward but it’s not. As soon as Lewis has James under his roof something in him eases, some tension inside him and between them that Hathaway wasn’t even fully conscious of seems to dissipate. Despite the circumstances and the long days spent at the morgue and in fruitless interviews and trawling through record after record in the vain hope of a lucky break, James has not felt so rested in months.  
  
He still dreams, but it is about everyday things or about the sky. He thinks it’s because he gets to watch Robbie fly again, gets to see his skin change colour and texture, gets to tip his head back and see the large shadow rising up, visible only in the absence of stars.  
  
He doesn’t tell James exactly where he goes or who he meets and perhaps James should demand some answers but he finds himself not caring that much, trusting that Lewis will tell him if something important comes up, something he needs to know about.  
  
On the fourth night he does. “I must talk to the Khe’e’laf’in,” Robbie says. They are sitting in the lounge, the case files spread in front of them on the coffee table.  
  
James raises his eyebrows questioningly. He doesn’t understand the term but something about it strikes a chord, like it’s a word he once heard a long time ago and had only forgotten.  
  
“They are...” Lewis stares at the wall for a moment as if considering whether to actually explain. “You know all dragons can look like human,” he finally says.  
  
Hathaway nods.  
  
“Well, some dragons choose not to.”  
  
James thinks about that for a while. “What, like ever?” he asks, frowning. “But then how... Maybe in Asia or Africa somewhere, you could get away with it, but in England? Surely someone would spot...?”  
  
“There are... other ways of hiding,” Lewis interrupts. It’s clear from his tone of voice that no further explanation will be forthcoming here.  
  
“And you think these...”  
  
“Khe’e’laf’in.”  
  
“...Khe’e’laf’in,” Hathaway repeats haltingly, “will know something?”  
  
“Oh they always know _something_ ,” Lewis huffs. “It’s just not might be the kind of something that will help us with the case. But we’re running out of options here. And time. Innocent’s been good at letting us keep the NDA out of this but there’s only so much she can do.”  
  
Hathaway knows all of that, of course he does, although he’s done a good job at ignoring it over the last couple of days, too relieved and comfortable to be in Robbie’s house, to have his... his _friend_ back.  
  
“And all NDA will do is throw its weight around and make anyone with information pull even further underground,” James says. It’s what they’re both thinking. “Alright then. Is it... Is it safe?”  
  
“It’s necessary,” is all Lewis says before starting to chug out of his clothes.  
  
James averts his eyes as he usually does, not that Lewis seems to mind whether he’s watching or not. When he looks up, Robbie is gone. James gets up and closes the backdoor, not following him outside this time to witness his departure.  
  
  
***  
  
  


_From up here, the cars look like marbles to be tossed, all shiny and useless. The wind is his to travel and the night expands like fire_  
  
 _he is the fire, he is the night, he is the way_  
  
 _It’s time to play. The crunch of metal and bone is satisfying, filling the empty spaces in his claws and behind his teeth, and the taste of power is even sweeter than they’d promised._  
  
 _Everything is better now. Everything is his. Under the night sky the clisk'rah'e falls screaming._

  
“Wake up!” There are hands on his shoulders, hauling him up. “James, James! Snap out of it!”  
  
Hathaway gags, the now familiar taste of blood fresh and overwhelming in his mouth. His fingers are curled into something warm and solid, and with a start he realises he’s leaning against Lewis’ chest. The skin under his cheek is harsh and even in the pale dawn light he can see that the colour is nowhere near human. He thinks that if he moved his hands to Lewis’ back he might still be able to feel where his wings had been  
  
“How long has this been going on?” Lewis asks and his voice is tight with anger and worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“What?” James asks, still caught in the afterimage of a shattering windscreen, the feel of a shattering ribcage. “It’s just dreams,” he says, “just dreams.” Even to his own ears the words sound childish and pleading, like a boy asking for reassurance that the monsters aren’t real when he knows that the world is full of them.  
  
“Por’tak!” Lewis spits and while Hathaway doesn’t know what the word means, he recognises a curse when he hears one.  
  
Once James is sure he’s not going to throw up he pushes off, swinging his legs off the sofa to sit up properly. His body feels like it’s made of lead, something denser than mere flesh and bone certainly. Lewis lets him go without a protest, standing up and regarding him without a word for a moment before turning to pull on his clothes. It’s only then that Hathaway realises he hadn’t been wearing any. It’s obvious Lewis had rushed into the house mid-transformation.  
  
“What happened?” James asks. He’s not sure whether he means with the Khe’e’laf’in or how Lewis ended up back here in time to pull him out of his nightmare.  
  
“I heard you,” Lewis says, pulling on his shirt and turning back around.  
  
“I was yelling?” Hathaway frowns, disconcerted to think that all this time his dreams have not been as private a hell as he’d thought.  
  
Lewis doesn’t answer. Instead he sits down and fixes James with an unreadable look. “Where is it?” he finally asks.  
  
“Where’s what?”  
  
“The body.”  
  
James blinks, confused. “What? How...?”  
  
“You know. _Think_ ,” Lewis says. “You saw it, now go through it. Try to remember; what’s around you, what can you see?”  
  
“I...” James thinks he should be surprised that Lewis knows about the way his dreams seem to reflect reality, but somehow he isn’t. “A road,” he says. “Somewhere outside the city. I don’t...” He shakes his head, trying to dislodge useful details from the violent ones. “There were no other cars around. The boy...” James swallows convulsively. “Didn’t even see it coming. So... so small.” He doesn’t actually know if the victim had been particularly small, but he’d _felt_ like it in his dreams; small and fragile. James’ fingers have curled into claws again, unconsciously. His breathing is heavy.  
  
“Come on, lad,” Robbie says, suddenly next to Hathaway on the sofa again. “There might still be a chance to—”  
  
“No,” he interrupts. “These... I don’t know what the _fuck_ these dreams are, but it’s not some kind of prophecy. Whatever I see... it’s already happened.”  
  
Lewis doesn’t say anything. Outside the sun is slowly rising, the darkness separating into long shadows that dissect the room and pin the two of them in place, unable to move in the face of the inevitable.  
  
Then the phone rings.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Chu Min is waiting for them in Florence Park, sitting on a bench near the children’s play area, abandoned this early in the morning.  
  
She gets up as she sees Lewis and Hathaway approaching, starting to walk along the gravel path, her green cardigan tightly wrapped around herself. They exchange a quick look and then casually catch up to her, keeping pace.  
  
Lewis clears his throat. “If you’re afraid, we can—”  
  
“Everyone is afraid,” Chu Min says sharply. “If you’re not, you’re a fool.” She holds up a hand to halt any further questions. “Listen up,” she says, “because I’m only going to say this once and I’m only going to say this to you, not to your commanding officer, or any prosecutor. Certainly not to NDA!” She spits that last bit out like it’s something foul. Apart for that her accent is almost non-existent.  
  
“There is a new dragon in Oxford,” Chu Min says.  
  
“I would have heard if someone had moved—”  
  
“No, you misunderstand,” she interrupts impatiently. “Not new to the area. A _new_ dragon.”  
  
Lewis stops, clearly shocked. Chu Min ignores him and keeps walking, Hathaway caught between the two of them. “Yes, a riek’hal,” she continues. “And yes, the Khe’e’laf’in know.”  
  
Lewis curses.  
  
“What are you talking about, what’s a riek’hal?” Hathaway asks. The two dragons ignore him.  
  
“Who brought him over? Or is it her?” Lewis is grim now, like the news is even worse than he imagined.  
  
Chu Min looks at him pityingly. “Who do you think?”  
  
This time when Lewis curses it’s in Dragonese. Chu Min says something back in the same language but before Hathaway has a chance to feel even more excluded than he already does, his phone rings. He knows what it’s about before he even answers.  
  
By the time he’s confirmed the address and the details with the control room, Chu Min and Lewis have finished their conversation.  
  
“Just outside Chastleton,” James says, hanging up.  
  
Lewis nods. “Xie xie,” he says to Chu Min but she isn’t interested in their thanks, already walking away, her back straight and her long black hair flying in the wind.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The scene that awaits them is exactly like in Hathaway’s dream: a crushed wreck of a car on the side of a road, shattered glass and blood everywhere, and the body of a young man hanging half out of the broken windscreen. It could be a traffic accident but there is nothing out here for the car to have hit and no sign of another vehicle being involved.  
  
There are, however, large scratches across the roof of the car, as if left there by giant claws. It’s no wonder the local sergeant had asked for them. Already, the word ‘dragon’ is being spoken out loud albeit in hushed voices in deference – or fear more like it, Hathaway thinks – of Lewis. The cat is officially out of the bag and it will only be a matter of short hours, a day at most, until Innocent has no choice but to call NDA in.  
  
Lewis knows it too. There is a look of grim determination on his face, but also distraction. They deal with the scene quickly, talking to Laura and SOCOs but leaving the interviewing of witnesses and family members to the local officers. Hathaway understands why. There is no longer anything useful to be gained from the victim or the scene itself. The information they needed was delivered earlier this morning although Hathaway still doesn’t know just what it was that Chu Min had told Lewis.  
  
His patience lasts just until they are about ten minutes away from the crime scene, driving back toward Oxford. Then he picks the first wide shoulder he spots, pulls over and slams out of the car almost before it has come to a full stop.  
  
To his credit, Lewis follows him out without a protest.  
  
The sun is dipping toward afternoon, although it’s difficult to tell as the sky is covered in a thin haze from horizon to horizon. It diffuses the light in a way that makes everything look slightly unreal, which James thinks is oddly fitting, all things considered.  
  
“What the hell is going on?” he demands, rounding on Lewis. “You know who’s killing these people, don’t you? The riek’hal, isn’t it? Only... what the fuck is that? All these meetings you’ve been having, with the other dragons, with the Khe’e’laf’in, you don’t _tell_ me anything about them, not really.” He’s breathing hard now, all the frustration of the last few weeks spilling over. “And I’ve been so goddamn _respectful_ of all these lines you’ve drawn, not stepping over to where I’m clearly not welcome, not asking questions when I should have! God...” He runs a hand over his face, startled by how cold his fingers are, like ice, even though the weather is relatively mild. “Instead of thinking like a copper, I’ve been thinking like your friend,” he says. It sounds weary, like the word has no real meaning.  
  
Lewis shifts uncomfortably, gravel scraping under his shoes. “I was trying to protect—”  
  
“I never asked for that!” James snaps. “I don’t need protection, I need some _answers_ _!_ ” He closes his eyes, reaching for some composure but only partially succeeding. “The dreams... You know what they mean.” It’s not a question. He opens his eyes and looks at his boss. “Please Robbie. I need to know.”  
  
There’s a silence, filled with nothing but the rumble of passing traffic. Then Lewis takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, tipping his face up toward the non-colour sky. “Do you know how dragons... come to be?”  
  
Hathaway frowns. “What? What does—?”  
  
“You ever seen a child dragon? A baby one?” Lewis asks. “Just... humour me and answer the question.”  
  
James is feeling increasingly disinclined to humour anyone at the moment but... “No,” he says, thinking. “No, I... I don’t think I have.”  
  
“No one has,” Lewis says. “Because there aren’t any.”  
  
James stares. “That’s impossible. Every species must procreate to survive! There are stories and legends about dragons going back thousands of years. I know dragons don’t age like humans do but you can’t seriously expect me to believe that the dragons that are alive now are the same ones!”  
  
“No, no, of course not,” Lewis says. “All dragons die, just like any other living being. Just... they’re not born. Or, to be more accurate: they’re not born dragons.”  
  
There’s an understanding, bone-deep and immense, rising up from within him like some kind of Leviathan. He knows it in his heart first and only then, several seconds later, in his mind. “They’re born human,” Hathaway breathes, sagging against the car as all his strength flees him.  
  
“Everyone one of us,” Lewis confirms. For someone who has just shared what must be one of the most closely guarded secrets of his species, he looks remarkably calm.  
  
James, on the other hand, is still reeling. “Then this riek’hal...” He’s thinking out loud now, connections snapping into place. “A new dragon. That’s what Chu Min said; that this was a new dragon.”  
  
“Yes. Someone who realised what he was. Or someone who was made to realise,” Robbie adds grimly. “Either way, they should have never... Hathaway? Hathaway, what’s..?.”  
  
James doesn’t hear the end of the question. James isn’t even really there anymore.  
  
  


_...all that blood but his this time, his, when he’d done nothing but what is his right, his duty. He was the prophet, the one sent to prepare the way, to baptise the earth for the one who would come after._  
  
 _“You are no St John,” a voice says, a terrible, beautiful voice. “You are no sign, only a symptom.”_  
  
 _But they’d promised, they’d promised! He rails against the injustice like a child denied his favourite toy, full of anger and grief, but he can’t even cry, can only bleed..._

  
“Where?”  
  
Hathaway comes to in the familiar position; held upright between Lewis’ arms. His own are wrapped around his middle, clamped over a gaping wound, the blood pulsing out at every heartbeat. God, it hurts. It hurts and he’s going to—  
  
“You’re alright, there’s no blood. You’re alright,” Robbie is saying.  
  
He’s right. The only real pain he’s feeling is the gravel under his knees and the too tight grip Lewis has on his shoulders. There is no wound. Cautiously, he pulls his hands away, revealing nothing but the wrinkled fabric of his shirt.  
  
“What...? I wasn’t asleep,” he says, voice hoarse like he’s been screaming and God, maybe he has. “I wasn’t...”  
  
“Where?” Lewis repeats. He pulls James to his feet, urgent but gentle, shakes him a little. “I’m sorry, lad, I’m so sorry, but you have to tell me right now: Where was it?”  
  
Wordlessly, Hathaway lifts his arm and points in the direction they have just come from. He doesn’t have the words to name or even describe the location of his, fuck, his _vision_ , but he knows exactly where it is. He can take them there. “That way,” he says and his voice doesn’t waver at all.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Lewis drives like he’s possessed; the lights and sirens on even though the roads are relatively quiet at this time of the day. Somewhere at the back of his mind Hathaway is amused that the whole drama is taking place during the day instead dead of night, like they’ve broken some kind of supernatural mystery protocol by not confronting the killer in the darkness, preferably in the cemetery.  
  
Mostly though, he’s too busy giving terse directions and trying to keep his questions and doubts and fears – What if this isn’t the end of it? What if these visions continue to haunt his waking hours now? – at bay until later. He can’t work like this. He can’t _live_ like this.  
  
Soon, the roads they’re taking become smaller and narrower. Lewis switches off the lights and sirens and they proceed more slowly, cautiously.  
  
It hits him half way down an unremarkable dirt track; the power rolling over him like a wave, similar to what he’s used to from Lewis, but more, much more, multiplied by years and numbers and intentions he can’t even begin to comprehend.  
  
“Stop,” he gasps, hands braced against the dashboard, “stop here,” but Lewis is already ahead of him, already slamming on the breaks and climbing out the car.  
  
James does the same. The sense of power is still there but it gets easier to bear at every breath, like acclimatising to a thunder storm.  
  
He sees them then. In the field to the side of the road, partly hidden by the occasional trees, stand four dragons. They are large though not any larger than Lewis, James thinks, perhaps the width of light aircrafts but much taller. Their scales glint dully in the waning light, all in the colours of autumn; rust and orange, muted green and the blackish brown of rot.  
  
“Oh my god,” Hathaway breathes out. “Oh my god.” He’s afraid and oddly comforted by that, as surely it’s a reaction any sane human would have.  
  
Robbie whirls around to face him. “You can see them?” he demands, but clearly the look on James’ face is answer enough because he immediately continues with: “Stay here,” before heading off the road and wading into the rain heavy wheat.  
  
Hathaway would dearly like to argue the point but he thinks he’s better off saving his breath and instead simply follows.  
  
Twenty yards in he can see that there is a fifth dragon, a smaller one, lying on the ground in the middle of the others. Twenty-five yards in he’s on the ground too, screaming.  
  
  


_His mouth is full of coins; copper and broken teeth and he doesn’t understand how this could be happening, how—_  
  
 _“Vierash, gel’e – crawl like – shein’de ha – pay for all –”_  
  
 _...not a worm, not a worm, but he’s crawling like one anyway even though he is a –_

  
“Stop, stop! Hesne! Gresh’key heidu killing him, lamal re!” Robbie’s voice, except not quite, harsher, afraid, shouting at him...  
  
No, not him, the dragons. The dragons that are here, above him, and James can see...  
  


_the sky, white and red, full of claws and teeth, rending into him and there are_

  
wings stretching over him like the Milky Way and James thinks  
  


_he’s going to die_

  
he could fly there, and he spreads his arms  
  


_wings_

  
but there is only  
  


_the final, warm pulse of blood and then_

  
nothing.  
  
  
***  
  
  
James comes to slowly, tasting not blood but earth; dark and ripe with life underneath his open mouth. He’s still down, face pressed against the damp ground. It takes a monumental effort to blink and when he does, all he can see is his own hand, dirt-stained and cold, and beyond that nothing but stalks of wheat, some still standing up but most broken.  
  
The  ground vibrates. It takes a while for him to realise why.  
  
The dragons. They are still there, all around him, the sheer size and weight of them making the very earth tremble. He should be afraid of getting crushed but he can’t seem to gather enough of his thoughts even for that.  
  
“...thia’mak per it my business!” That’s Lewis speaking, James knows that, even though the voice is nothing that he’s ever heard.  
  
“You are pushing your snout into things...”  
  
Hathaway drifts in and out of consciousness, catching only snippets of the conversation. He understands the words even though everyone must be speaking in Dragonese, but the overall meaning escapes him.  
  
“...responsible for this? At least three people are dead, don’t you...”  
  
“...fixed now. Does he know...?”  
  
“No choice other than... what happens... never!”  
  
There’s silence. James fights to stay awake, to right himself, to see what’s going on, but only manages to roll onto his back. In a daze, he blinks at the sky, waiting for the colours and shapes to arrange themselves into something that makes sense, but they never do. Instead, there is a sudden sound like thunder and the shadows above him depart one by one, until nothing remains but the darkening day.  
  
It starts to rain. Hathaway opens his mouth, letting the water trickle down his throat as he lies spread-eagled amidst the mud and crushed wheat like a sacrifice to a pagan god. He thinks he may be crying though he doesn’t know why.  
  
“Well,” Lewis says then, his familiar lined face swimming into sight as he kneels next to James, arms coming around his shoulders to pull him up. “That went about as well as expected.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
The next few days are chaos. With a dead dragon on their hands, an executed killer no less, Innocent is left with no other option except to call the NDA. At least it’s not Williams who comes this time, but a young female agent called O’Connor. Lewis seems marginally more tolerant of her, not that James is there to witness this, or indeed any of it, firsthand.  
  
The combination of sleepless nights and getting soaked to the skin whilst lying on the cold ground takes its toll and James falls ill. He spends almost a full week in bed, curling around deep rattling coughs that leave him drained and cause Robbie to insist on a doctor despite James’ protests.  
  
A course of antibiotics and two lectures on the dangers of pneumonia, which James feels are deeply unfair because it’s not like he chose to end up face down in a muddy field, later he feels just about able to stay awake long enough to have an actual conversation. Robbie seems to sense it too because as soon as he comes by that evening he hides in the kitchen, muttering something about dinner. James very much doubts he’s up to more than toast yet and after waiting for ten minutes he finally gets up, his legs only slightly wobbly, and wraps a quilt around himself as he shuffles through his flat.  
  
He leans against the kitchen doorway, watching Lewis make sandwiches with a fierce concentration. He has been around every day during Hathaway’s convalesce, nagging about medicines and pouring gallons of tea down his throat, and despite all the secrets – the ones kept from him, the ones he is  now forced to keep himself – James can’t help but think that it’s a price worth paying if he can have this.  
  
Because he knows it was Lewis who stood above him in that field, shielding James’ body with his own, shielding his mind in a way James doesn’t understand but that nevertheless pulled him back from that starless night he had been flying toward. Because Lewis stood against his own, for James, and after, when it was over, he was still there.  
  
Just like he is there now, pouring hot water over tea bags with hands that James can still feel against his skin.  
  
“On the mend then, lad?” Lewis asks.  
  
James doesn’t startle. Of course Lewis had heard him. “Well enough to want some answers,” he says, and then, when Robbie’s face shadows with regret, he adds: “Just... Anything you can give me. Please. The visions... If it’s going to happen again, I need to—”  
  
“Sit,” Lewis says, pushing Hathaway into a chair gently. “Drink. Eat.” A steaming mug and a plate of roast beef sandwiches are pushed in front of him and Lewis settles in the chair opposite.  
  
Once James takes the first sip of his tea, Robbie relaxes. Then he starts talking.  
  
A lot of what Lewis tells him James has already figured out; the now dead riek’hal responsible for the murders, killed in turn by the Khe’e’laf’in dispensing their own justice – cleaning up their mistake, Robbie bitterly remarks – the efficient way NDA has tied everything up and all the lies Lewis told to make sure no one knew about James’ dreams.  
  
Hathaway sits and listens and when Lewis finally runs out of things to say, he asks: “Why?”  
  
Robbie looks away then, into the blackness outside the window, and in the reflection his eyes glint yellow, just for a second. “I don’t know,” he answers. “Sometimes there are... individuals who... see things. Who dream of dragons.” He reaches out a hand, briefly touching James’ arm. “I’m sorry. It’s not usually like this; something bad.”  
  
James thinks he’s telling the truth. Or at least something as close to it as he can. “Will they come back?” he asks, half afraid, half hoping.  
  
“I don’t know,” Lewis says again but this time the words are only technically true and the look on his face tells another story.  
  
Hathaway breathes in, then out. He can wait, now that he doesn’t have to do it alone.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Two months later, Hathaway comes home to find a red envelope on the hallway floor. It’s blank, no name or stamp, clearly delivered by hand. Cautiously, he picks it up, keeping his touch to the edges as best as he can. There is something inside, bulkier than paper, and James tips the envelope onto his palm, curious.  
  
A ring rolls out, heavy and silver, shaped like an ouroboros. James rubs his thumb over the head and then, on impulse he   cannot explain, he slips it on.  
  
It fits perfectly; the snake eating its own tail circling his ring finger in an eternal promise.  
  
A promise of what, he doesn’t know. But he thinks he will soon find out.


End file.
